“What do you mean by it?” he said, dark with fury. And he started up. “No!” she cried. “Ted!” And she caught hold of him, sharply detaining him. It made him black with rage. “Why?” he said. Then something about her mouth was pitiful to him. He did not understand, but he felt she must have her reasons. “Then I’m not stopping here,” he said. “Are you coming with me?” She rose mutely, and they went out of the room. Adams had not noticed. In a few moments they were in the street. “What the hell do you mean?” he said, in a black fury. She went at his side, in silence, neutral. “That great hog, an’ all,” he added. Then they went a long time in silence through the frozen, deserted darkness of the town. She felt she could not go indoors. They were drawing near her house. “I don’t want to go home,” she suddenly cried in distress and anguish. “I don’t want to go home.” He looked at her. “Why don’t you?” he said. “I don’t want to go home,” was all she could sob. He heard somebody coming. “Well, we can walk a bit further,” he said. She was silent again. They passed out of the town into the fields. He held her by the arm—they could not speak. “What’s a-matter?” he asked at length, puzzled. She began to cry again. At last he took her in his arms, to soothe her. She sobbed by herself, almost unaware of him. “Tell me what’s a-matter, Elsie,” he said. “Tell me what’s a-matter—my dear—tell me, then——” He kissed her wet face, and caressed her. She made no response. He was puzzled and tender and miserable. At length she became quiet. Then he kissed her, and she put her arms round him, and clung to him very tight, as if for fear and anguish. He held her in his arms, wondering. “Ted!” she whispered, frantic. “Ted!” “What, my love?” he answered, becoming also afraid. “Be good to me,” she cried. “Don’t be cruel to me.” “No, my pet,” he said, amazed and grieved. “Why?” “Oh, be good to me,” she sobbed. And he held her very safe, and his heart was white-hot with love for her. His mind was amazed. He could only hold her against his chest that was white-hot with love and belief in her. So she was restored at last. III She refused to go to her work at Adams’s any more. Her father had to submit and she sent in her notice—she was not well. Sam Adams was ironical. But he had a curious patience. He did not fight. In a few weeks, she and Whiston were married. She loved him with passion and worship, a fierce little abandon of love that moved him to the depths of his being, and gave him a permanent surety and sense of realness in himself. He did not trouble about himself any more: he felt he was fulfilled and now he had only the many things in the world to busy himself about. Whatever troubled him, at the bottom was surety. He had found himself in this love. They spoke once or twice of the white stocking. “Ah!” Whiston exclaimed. “What does it matter?”